Save the world
by andygreyson
Summary: How do way say goodbye for someone we love? There is a Hell for everyone. Sherlock already lives in his, and there is no way he can get out of it. He lives in self-loathing and disgust, until he mets someone very special. But could it be enough to make him see the light?
1. Where do we start?

They say Hell is a dark, lonely place. His hell was different though. It was cold, and it was crowded. So many people. Yelling, just going around without actually going anywhere. The sky wasn't red; the ground wasn't on fire. Everything looked normal;

He read somewhere that Hell is actually different for everyone. It's made to be your personal nightmare. Once his friend told him, that he would imagine Hell being like an empty room; dark, cold, and empty.

He would only smile at that, because there's no such thing as Hell, as there is no Heaven.

'Where do we go when we die?' he asked his brother once.

'Where would we? We go nowhere; there is no you, after death, there is nothing.'

He realised they were lying. There is Hell. He's walking at it's streets, he's breathing it's air. It was his personal Hell, his personal nightmare.

One cigarette after another; just laying in his sofa, looking at the smoke. It was cold, and he was frozen to his bones. He felt it; he just wouldn't care. He didn't know if it was day or night outside; he didn't know the time. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he was not. Sometimes he would get high just to cry his heart out in the bathroom floor; and there was times when he would just stare blankly not knowing a thing about himself.

A loud noise woke him up. He's phone was buzzing next to him, filling in the room with it's light. He covered his eyes,and waited a little to get used to the sudden outburst of brightness. Actually the time he got used to the light, the buzzing stopped. He picked up his phone and found a message on it. Actually 10 of them.

'If you won't reply I'm breaking your freaking door on you' was the last.

He was annoyed; he knew the man well enough, and he was capable of doing something reckless like this.Just as he was about to reply, the phone was buzzing again.

'10'

Ten? He looked at the phone strangly. But then he felt it again.

'9'

He jumped up, got the closest trousers and shirt he could find and started dressing. By the time he got message '2' he stood in front of the door, and by '1' he looked in the police officer's eyes.

'What do you think you're doing?' the officer yelled, and grabbed him by the shirt.

'What-'

'Don't play your stupid games with me! I'm tired of constantly worrying about you, and I'm tired of listening to the emergency channel at night, just waiting to hear your name being said, i'm sick of all!' he yelled shaking him, wet eyes.

Sherlock couldn't look at him; he felt ashamed.

'Lestrade, I-'

'No, shut up! This will end now! I won't tolerate this any longer, I won't watch you kill yourself!'

He stayed in silence. There was no point of it at all.

'Look at yourself! Because I..I can't! You're a walking dead, nothing more than some bones, and skin. Please, I... I can't do this.' the older started sobbing and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Sherlock let it, but felt extremely awkward. This sudden outburst made him feel uneasy. He hated to know that his well being caused so much pain to this man.

He just realised as he looked over Lestrade's sobbing shoulders that it was morning outside; all sunny and warm. He heard the vehicles, he heard people laughing,and suddenly he felt extremely sick in his stomach.

Finally Lestrade let go of him.

'Can..Can I come in?' he asked. Sherlock nodded.

Now he was sitting in his sofa; the lights were on, and Lestrade was in the kitchen making tea for them. How funny, he thought. He looked around and saw his clothes all over the floor. Broken mugs, torn papers and the smell of cigarette all over the place. Lestrade said nothing at that.

'Here' he said as he brought in the mugs and gave one to Sherlock. The hot mug actually made him feel nice; he just realised how cold he was. He hold the mug a little stronger now.

He couldn't remember the last time he made tea for himself. At the begging he tried; he tried to lead a normal life, doing everyday things, went to University. But he couldn't keep up very long, he dropped out, and started his downward spiral of self-loathing.

Lestrade sit next to him and stared down awkwardly.

'Look... I don't know a lot about you, and I don't know what to say in a situation like this, damn it...' he looked up at him' But I want you to know that I wanna help. No, that I will help you. I won't let you do this anymore. I'm here to help.'

Sherlock looked away and stared at his mug.

He knew the man for a year now. The first time they met, Sherlock was lying on the street high as a bird.Lestrade just started at the police and was on patrol when he spotted the young boy laying on the street. Sherlock was 21, but still looked too young for Lestrade.

He wanted to take the young boy back to the station, but Sherlock asked him not to. Actually cried. He promised that he would never do it again, that this was just a mistake and learned from it. Lestrade was naive and hopeful; he was not proud of it now, but he let the boy go. Only to find him again and again on the street, high and desperate.

One day he took the boy for a cafe nearby. He was resistant at first but then agreed. They sat outside of the store, and drank. They talked a lot and Lestrade learned a thing or two about Sherlock, and decided to help him. Little did he know everything would be a lot more complicated than he thought.

'I don't want any help.'Sherlock replied eventually.

'That's a shame, but it changes nothing. I'm staying here, and I will do everything to make you feel better. You know why, you stupid moron? Because I freaking care about you. I will not let you waste away.'

Sherlock was suprised but angry too.

'Why? You don't even know me! You know nothing' he replied getting more angry.

'Damnit I feel responsible for you, I just can't help it. Please don't make this any harder.'

Lestrade wished he would've taken the boy to the station that night. He would've got professional help, and he would be taken care of. But he wanted to do something nice in life, and he belived in second chances.

'Well stop doing it! You're not my dad.LEAVE ME!' Sherlock felt the mug break in his hand. He held it too tightly and now it's all broken, and he can't help but cry. He felt ashamed, and he tried but couldn't help the tears from falling.

'Jesus Sherlock...Don't move'

Sherlock felt the pain in his hands but couldn't care. He felt Lestrade stand up, and collect the broken pieces. Then he came back with some bandages and started to aid his hands. Sherlock calmed down and was thankful for his help.'I'm sorry' he said to Lestrade.

'Nah, It's fine..'

They sat next to each other for a while. Sherlock felt cold and empty, but he was glad he was not alone.

He couldn't remember when or how he got so bad. Everything was looking bright when he moved out of home. He felt hope then, he could do it, he will be just fine.

At UNI his "friends" encouraged him to start doing drugs; and as soon as he tried, he realised he would not stop.

He actually fell asleep after a while; he was tired and weak and Lestrade made him feel safe.

He dreamt about being a boy again, and he was playing around his old family house. He grabbed up a long stick and he pretended it was a sword; he started to hit the brushes around him, because they were such deadly enemies, and he felt happy, but once he looked around again, he saw that the bushes were on fire. He panicked and started to run but the fire was getting big really fast, and now he was cornered at there was nothing he could do.

'Help! Help me! Please!'

He woke up alone, sweaty and cold. He started to desperately look for a cigarette. He found one and started to look for the lighter.

'Looking for this one?' He turned around and saw Lestrade with the blue lighter in his hands.

He went and took it from him, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deeply. He now looked up at Lestrade and saw he was smoking too.

'Still here?'he asked, but not annoyed.

'Couldn't damn moved after you fell asleep on me' he joked.

'Sorry about that'

'It's fine but you better get ready soon.'

'Ready for what?'

'We're going out.'

'The hell we go.' he replied. He hated to go out; the noises, the lights, everything. As a kid he loved playing outside. But after the accident, everything has changed.The sun hurt his eyes and he got strong headaches. The loud noises made him want to rip off his ears and scream his lungs out. So he prefered being inside now.

'Well, like it or not we're going. And I have to get my stuff anyway'

'What stuff?'

'I told you. I'm not gonna leave you.'

Lestrade actually stayed for 6 months. He helped Sherlock get off drugs, and helped him find a proper job. He was holding Sherlock's hand when he woke up screaming from a nightmare. He stayed up at night sitting next to him as he threw up in the loo.

'I just can't.

I hate myself'

he cried as he threw up again.

Sherlock continued living in his personal Hell.

There is no one who can help, no one who can understand.

He felt as if he was fading away.


	2. Gone

One day he packed up.

It was an endless loop of slowly dying but not being able to tell anyone.

His suffering brought pain to others; he hated to admit, but Sherlock cared about his friends. It was always easier to say he did not, but life wasn't easy, and for whatever reason he was a magnet for complications.

Lestrade's attempts to make him feel 'normal' went to waste. He could not be helped, he saw no point in pretending to be alright; he had to disappear.

It was the only way to make things right.

One day after the officer got off to work, he wasted no time. Grabbed a bag and packed some of his clothes away. He left his phone at his bedside table with a note " _thank you for everything"_ , and left.

He needed to get away; it doesn't matter where, or for how long. He started walking down a street, with a black hood on his head, and started to smoke his cigarette.

It was cold, and the hot smoke around him made him feel better. Maybe that's what life is; an endless walking away with dark clouds around your head, ready to take you away.

He ignored the pain he felt in his head, and tried to shut out the noises, and smells. It was impossible, and he hated himself for being so weak.

He always used back streets and alleys where usually was no one but him. He went aimlessly for hours, his legs were screaming _stop_ but as always his ask for help did not find any answers.

He was not unfamiliar with going away.

After the _accident_ it became a hobby of his; once his brother found him sitting in the rain, with his school bag on his back, wearing his elementary school uniform, crying. Mycroft actually sat down next to him and wrapped him in his arms. They did not say a word. Sherlock pulled closer to his brother, and they sat there until the rain stopped. It was a special moment for him.

As he walked and got farther and farther away from his messed up life, he actually felt calmed. Every step he took was a victory towards his freedom; away from people trying to control him, and more towards independence. Maybe that's what he actually needed; to start over, to be Sherlock Holmes; not the "little brother of Mycroft".

When people looked at him, they didn't know who he was, or how broken he was. He could've been anyone. He could be an artist; painting about the sky, and freedom, and about being easy as a pie. Or a doctor; helping people, saving lives.

He was the only one who knew his past and mistakes.

As the night came he found and empty dark street, and pulled his blanket out of the bag. He felt so cold. He closed his eyes and imagined lying next to a fireplace, reading his favourite book, just as he did as a kid. It was easier to fall asleep that way.

Days came and went. He was walking further and further away, but always feeling a chain on his leg pulling him back to his old life; never letting him go. He was carving for a cigarette; he actually smoked them all on the first day.

On an especially cold day he was sitting on a street, with the blanket covering him, shaking.

'Gimme the blanket' he heard a shaky voice. When he looked up he saw a young boy, in dirty clothes with a crowbar in his hands aiming at him.

Sherlock looked away tiredly.

'If you want it you should just take it…'

'I..What?'

'Take it if you want it. I don't care.'

The boy lowered the crowbar. He looked hesitant.

Sherlock got angry.

'What? I thought you needed the blanket. Take it then.'

'But...Don't you need it? I mean… Shouldn't you fight for it?'

Sherlock sighed and stood up.

'Fine, let's fight for it then.'

The young boy held up the crowbar shakily. When Sherlock nodded, he hesitantly aimed for him and swung.

Sherlock easily stepped away, struck his opponent's elbow, who then dropped the crowbar. Before the boy could've reacted, he hit his knee with the crowbar weakly, so he would collapse, but not hurt badly.

'Ouch' the boy yelled and pulled his knees to his chest.

Sherlock took his stuff, and as he was walking away, he left the banket next to the boy on the ground. The boy looked up at him.

'Hey...Thanks I guess"

Before Sherlock disappeared in the corner he turned back.

'Hey, by the way. Do you have a cigarette?'

The young boy sat up and nodded.

Sherlock walked back to him and the boy handed him a smoke.

He lit it, and inhaled deeply. Suddenly everything felt easier and clearer. Just what he needed.

'I'm Wiggins. What's your name?' the boy asked.

'Sherlock.' he answered.

His friendship with Wiggins was very beneficial if nothing else. He lived in the streets for years, though he was a lot younger than Sherlock. Sherlock could tell that he had no family; or maybe he had one and lost them. Wiggins was hard to deduce which made him very interesting.

He knew the streets well; he showed Sherlock the best spots, and they actually traveled together. Wiggins lead him to a group of homeless people one day at the side of the city. There were like 7 or 8 of them; all pretty young and hopeless. Wiggins called them friends, so Sherlock tried to be nice to them. He lived in this group for a while. They all worked together and managed to get some money from here or there.

As days passed Sherlock found it harder to get out of his spot and do his daily jobs, such as checking the vending machines for any leftover money. He felt the others looking at him disapproving, but he just turned away.

He was going insane without anything to smoke, or anything to get high on. He just wanted to lay still and die. At the afternoon he actually had to throw up. He had no strength in him, so he crawled back to his spot and hid from the world.

'Sher, you 'right?' he heard Bill asking him.

'Go 'way' he answered.

He wanted to be left alone. Left to die.

Later that night Wiggins woke him up.

'Wake up, Sherlock, come on.'

'What?'

Sherlock stood up hesitantly, and he instantly felt the world take a turn around him.

'Here, take it' Wiggins took his hand and put something in it. When he looked down he saw a needle in it.

'What? What's this?'

'Morphine. Got some money with the boys. We're not gonna let you down, buddy. Now use it. It will make you feel all better.' Wiggins stood up and ran away.

Sherlock looked at the needle.

He pulled up his shirt, ready to use his 'medicine' He had problems aiming; he actually messed up 2 times and was starting to get desperate. He saw the vein, he saw the marks; he knew exactly where to aim, but his body was against him. In a last effort, he grabbed the needle harshly and poked himself as strongly as he could, and then smiled when he finally succeeded.

He then laid back for a while, waiting for it to hit.

Such a different life. Had he even have a life before all this? Everything looked so distant.

He felt so different; it wasn't the spinning world or the strange lights that made him feel that way.

He continued to drift away, and he really hoped that the next time, he would not open his eyes ever again.


End file.
